Diplomacy
by Hopeblossom
Summary: The years pushing towards the French Revolution are fraught with complexities for Alice and Françoise. With the political strain of their lives, it is hard to distinguish between what they feel as people and what they feel as nations. How will they survive in a world designed for the new? Nyotalia with historical focus. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

A lavish palace with rot in the walls; gold infused with the sweat of the worker. The great nation of France had lost its golden sun so many years ago and now couldn't seem to claw itself out of this dark, cloudy mess. Where had all the money gone? one might like to know. Françoise would like to know. She had seen too much these last one hundred years. The glory of war without the reward; deaths of the great and deaths of the young. And another war was yet to be fought - despite the few cautious years of tentative friendship that had been attempted beforehand, she had a bone to pick with the ever difficult Angleterre.

They had decided to meet on neutral land. Françoise didn't like to be away - she was ill. She was prone to dizziness and mood swings and apathy and hopelessness. One moment, she was full of cooing admiration for that young American, who she expected she might well and truly die for, eventually. The next, she was mournful, collapsed on a chair because she felt as if she wasn't entirely solid. She felt like a wave of the sea that gushed into foam. Hadn't Aphrodite been born of the sea...? Her thoughts lapped and drained; the constant worry for money pulsed in her head; the swelling anger of her people made her physically sick. She was their instrument, and had no control over anything. Their conflicted views raged in her human body, this awful form that allowed such great a pain. It had never been this bad with the Sun King. How she missed him - him and his glory days. Wars that they won. New provinces. How she missed him!

However, despite all of these maladies, Françoise had work to do. She waited for her enemy and sat at the table, sipping from a tea cup with hands that, she was troubled to note, were shaking. The great beauty looked unwell; the kohl on her lashes and her stained lips did not do a great deal to hide the stresses that she faced. Those limpid, lilac eyes were burdened. Why did they always look a little wet? Alice would notice this when they sat face to face. Even if she was so furious.

Alice came into the room silently, though the door creaked behind her, and her footsteps were like the heavy thud of a heart. Françoise met her eyes as she walked close to her. The chair moved back with a scrape, and Alice took it without any grace. She sat with bad posture. She was wearing trousers. Despite her problems, Françoise was still constrained in a corsets, ruffled with lace, adorned with silver.

"Madeleine is still marked by your French defects," Alice said coolly, reaching to pour herself some tea. For Françoise - maman! - it had been a bitter loss, and one that she remembered well. How she and Alice had met in that too big a room, the grand curtains blocking a good deal of the sun; Françoise had stood with her shoulders tight on Madeleine's shoulders, but then she had brushed back her hair, and then she had found herself crouching beside her, professional in such a way that made her heart ache. No tears, but reassuring smiles. Tenderness that she ought to have never developed. She had spent too long owith the girl: teaching her French, dressing her, putting her to sleep. Biological mothers of similar status didn't insist on the tenderness that Françoise had.

And then she had been lost.

"Is that so?" Françoise looked to Alice dryly. "You cannot blame a child for having naturally good taste."

"Perhaps not." Alice took a sip of her drink, and then eyed the woman before her. "Nor can I blame Amelia for this tantrum she is throwing. But you?" She smiled slightly and coldly. "You are a grown woman. You are senseless to intervene in this."

Perhaps she was. But Françoise only laughed sharply, in a very calculated manner. Alice knew this because she knew how Françoise dealt with her less attractive emotions. She had seen her real fury and her real bitterness, how she could snarl and how she could rage; she had seen her most intense grief; Françoise unwound and unwound, caring for anything and anyone but herself. Perhaps they were all nations, but they were made up of a mosaic of humans. They were human themselves.

"Is it really so senseless to believe in virtues such as freedom from a tyrant?"

"Me? Or your absolutist Louis?" Alice asked. "Your line of Louis'?"

"You, darling." Of course.

Alice did not consider herself a tyrant. In fact, she considered herself efficient. Powerful. She looked to Françoise with that angry, quirk of a smile.

"Do you even know what a parliament is anymore, Françoise?"

They had known one another for far too long. They were old: Madeleine and Amelia were fresh and new. Françoise was crumbling and Alice was being forced to face the reality of her age, and of the so called new world. All empires crumble, she had been warned. Not hers though, surely? Never hers.

Françoise and Alice had known each other when they had been dirty and uncivilised. They had known each other when great Rome had lived, though they had been so underdeveloped then, and hardly felt like individuals. They had been children. But with age came ambition, and Françoise had got it first; she had kept it all her life. Alice had swiftly caught up with her. And so they had been intermittent friends and foes, growing up together, whether they were doing so alongside on another or doing so at opposite ends of a battlefield.

"Why, of course! But I think they are very difficult, Alice, and I think they are very irritating, and I think they are very dull," Françoise said, looking to the English woman pointedly. What summarised Alice better than a parliament?

"You're an absolutist and I'm the tyrant?"

"Precisely."

"I know that you're sick, Françoise," Alice said, beginning to tire of these little jibes, and Françoise's easy, false smile. "You look bloody awful."

"You always were a charmer." Françoise couldn't hide it though. She had placed her hands in the lap to avoid the shaking, but she still had that pallor to her skin, and the bags beneath her eyes. "What does it have to do with anything?" she asked with a little bite.

"You're in no state to fight a war. Amelia can fight her own battles, if she's so keen to be independent."

"No, no," Françoise insisted, "I have told you. I am a great believer in the freedom that she speaks of so ardently." She looked to Alice and smiled knowingly.

It had nothing to do with freedom; it had everything to do with Alice. Alice had outdone her one too many times, had taken too much land, and Françoise wanted to establish herself as the dominant force once more: to have her revenge. As they matured into this new stage of life, it seemed they would be doing so as enemies.

"And what will her freedom get you, Françoise?" Alice, ever so composed, didn't raise her voice. She spoke more sharply. She enunciated those stabbing consonants.

The question made Françoise dizzy. She didn't currently like to think too far ahead. The last time this had happened she had lost Madeleine - her humanity begged to know how Madeleine was, exactly? What was she doing? Was she comfortable? Had her French inherited Alice's choppy little accent?

But there were other things to think about.

Amelia wanted freedom, Françoise thought. Amelia would be in debt to her. The next time that Alice came to sever her kingdom, Amelia would be there, young, blood hot in her veins... But what was Amelia to do about her internals, when the time came? How could she cope with Françoise's heavy heart; the cries of starving people, taxed and taxed and taxed. How could she reason with Françoise's blue blood, that undeniably pulsed through her with every breath she took and movement she made? The sentimental connection to her monarchs, to her nobles, to their interfering wives and mistresses who she always tried to make feel more at home. How could she rip the golden crucifix from Françoise's neck and tell her that it was the correct thing to do? How could her own people try and do the same? They had put her together and now were demanding that she dismantled herself.

"I believe in freedom, Alice," Françoise repeated, drawling, and her eyes wandering aside. She pressed her hand, damp with sweat, against her throbbing forehead. She closed her eyes. She slumped like a doll, abandoned. "There is no need for regicide. That's more your type of fun. I am... I am really very sure that a monarch can allow certain freedoms. Louis loves his people. And what a virtuous man he is!"

"She'll kill you."

Françoise looked up, startled. "Who will kill me?"

"Amelia," Alice said, reaching over and pouring Françoise a little more tea. She wasn't sure she had ever seen her so ailing. "You'll get into this mess and end up dead."

"And wouldn't you like that?" Françoise demanded, forgetting her composure as she looked up, her delicate brows furrowed, and her pretty lips frowning. "You would have no competition aside from your own protégée. Don't you see yourself in her?"

Alice sighed, and was still for just a moment. Françoise was always so trying, either with her teasing or with her wicked words; she was human enough to know where to prod and where to push, no matter what their respective monarchs and politicians might have to say.

"I am very angry with you, Françoise. I despise that you are encouraging all of this. And I despite that you are doing that at risk to yourself." The words came so firmly that it was hard to believe there might be any emotion behind them, any real, genuine thought. "Do you really think Amelia, new and unstable, will come to your aid when all of this is over? When she is beaten?"

"She will not be beaten, Alice. That, I will make sure of." Françoise met her eyes. She was quiet for a moment, drawing her thoughts, before she continued with confidence. "You may think that you are a winner on the world stage, Alice, with a few measly victories here or there, but you have had your time. Amelia and Madeleine; that is our future, I dare say, and you ought to get familiar with that. You are being stubborn."

"As are you." Alice looked to Françoise and then away. She couldn't help but look back to Françoise. "Perhaps you are an enemy, but you are a worthy one. And yet, you are wasting your time on Amelia's fancies. I don't know what has come over you."

Françoise laughed softly. "Neither do I. I am carried by my people and have nothing substantial within my own self." She looked to Alice and smirked. "And even with my instabilities and my laments, I will not be losing a war against you."

Alice scowled, and huffed as she stood. Françoise was incorrigible and would not be dissuaded. The English woman left quicker than she had entered, irritated, and understanding that this would be a fight bigger than she had anticipated, and more personal than she would like. Amelia resented her and Françoise did too. Both new and old had decided she was an enemy. They were both so deeply flawed, Alice thought. Françoise in particular, with all of her Catholic nonsense, and strange political workings.

And that strange woman, alone now, relaxed back in her chair, letting her head loll against the back. She could feel sweat on her body; she was most certainly going to war. Another war. More debts. American democracy. She hated it and she was tempted by it; while her hands made a desperate grab for it, her heart rejected it urgently, and fear for her monarchy rolled through her body. Perhaps she would die, she thought idly, eyes inspecting the ceiling as she slumped in her chair. But she would die beating Alice, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

Alice had declared war on Françoise. It was all her fault, of course, for deciding to support this little rebellion of Amelia's. So be it. Françoise had signed the contract and signed it spiritedly, humming something or other about English tyranny and kissing Amelia's cheeks, wishing her love and luck, and assuring her, no matter what, that she would win. They would win.

Although Amelia wasn't going to turn away this support, she had seen the double edge of Françoise's infatuation with her. Oh yes, her ideals were very virtuous indeed, truly admirable and wonderful, but more importantly, she was spitting in Alice's face. Undermining her power. Nevertheless, the support of this old and established nation was appreciated; the gun powder and ammunition that Françoise sent were put to good use.

But the talks and the gifts were the easy part. The sailing expeditions were troublesome; Françoise sat sea sick in a cabin while Alice stood proudly aboard the enemy ship, yelling this and that. Perhaps Aphrodite, beauty that she was, had been born of the sea, but it had been Poseidon who mastered it. Alice seemed almost at home above the salty sea spray; she didn't falter when the boat rocked, nor cover her ears when the canons fired. In fact, she seemed serene in these harsh surlroundings. She had approached this war with confidence, and irritance. There had been warnings that Amelia might begin to go astray. It could have been avoided. But war was no time for reflection, she thought. It was time for action.

As nations, every small loss hurt. They bruised whether they had been near their battles or not. Sometimes they bled. Sometimes they simple ached and there was no obvious remedy, until they became victorious once more.

But for Françoise, the physical aches and pains of war were a reoccurring inconvenience in her hazy frame of mind; she had to grasp her mind before she could note any physical wounds. Some evenings, she became so impassioned by those Americans that she gave riveting speeches on the matter, to anyone who would listen to her. The virtuous Americans! Fighting against tyranny and inequality, fighting for liberty! England would fall; she would crumble beneath them; she would be ashamed and humiliated! In these moments, she felt the happiest, and strongest. What were the Americans other than enlightened people, like her beloved Rosseau? Weren't they modern? So very admirable, she would say as she toasted them.

Other days were not so idealistic. She became pensive and silent and still. What would become of Louis, she wondered, if (or when) this all got out of hand? Amelia's inspirational society that she so admired, her courageous reformation, was apart from the old world. She was without monarchs. She didn't need them. She hadn't grown up with them in the way that Alice, and particularly Françoise, had; they had watched over each birth, each death, each regency; they had followed the family tensions and feared each bout of sickness. Furthermore, Françoise's own enlightened thinkers, Voltaire for example, agreed that the monarchy was essential for stability. They had always been the lynchpin of the kingdom, answering to no one but God. And the church! What of her church? And suddenly, she would feel very lost; she was trying to reach for something that she couldn't. Amelia's new world had no consideration for the one that Françoise had created.

Françoise was in one of those troubled moods when the Siege of Yorktown began. Amelia came to see her in her carriage before the fighting began; she too looked uncharacteristically weary. She had picked a tough opponent to fight a war against, but she believed in what she fought for, and believed it without doubt. Seeing Françoise in such a way hardly encouraged her, but she didn't settle on it, thinking it better to concentrate on the French troops that would help her. It was also always flattering to speak with Françoise; even in these terrible moods, Françoise, old and respected as she was, ducked her head to the young American, and acknowledged her leadership and her authority. The opposite of all that Alice had ever done.

Françoise knew that.

The trenches were dug and firing began, expeditions done under moonless, nighttime voids to surprise the English enemy. And Alice, always so strong, so commanding, so authoritative, began to slowly understand that in Yorktown, at least, she fought a loosing battle. As her generals became frightened, she began to look upon her soldiers wearily, and nervously. The thought of Amelia pierced her pride. And Françoise? She made her furious. Françoise seemed intent on not only destroying herself, but destroying them both.

They met one day. Alice stood on one side, her jaw stiffened bitterly. Amelia stood opposite her, and just behind her, Françoise, in one of those ridiculous continental dresses, gloved hands joined neatly, and her eyes watching keenly.

Alice was reminded of how, not so long ago, Madeline had been handed over.

"Your soldiers will become prisoners of war. And you won't be allowed to march out with pride. Not after how you treated my men," Amelia said, with newfound confidence. A battle had been won, and it was her dictating the terms and conditions. "Françoise must be given a fair share in this process. The victory was as much French as American."

"She'll have her fill," Alice muttered, eyeing her. Françoise was no longer shaking, she noted. Her skin had regained some of its colour. Alice, on the other hand, looked pale and furious, like the white hot glare of an iron inflamed.

And then Alice looked to the sword in her hands: the sword of surrender. She had been humiliated. Her eyes lingered on it for a moment, her lips slightly pursed as she thought of this symbolic offering. And then, head up, she took the steps and presented the sword to Françoise, meeting her eyes as it was handed over. Her oldest friend and oldest enemy. Another loss to add to the tally.

"No, Alice," Françoise said softly. How was she able to smile that tender, warm smile? "This swords belongs to Amelia." She looked to the girl and ducked her head respectfully, passing the sword into her open, waiting palms.

That, too, was another humiliation.

* * *

Peace treaties were never simple. The room of the hotel was quiet. Amelia sat on the edge of the table, leg dangling from it, while she waited for Alice to arrive. Despite this meeting being held in Paris, Françoise had not been invited. Nor had Spain or the Netherlands, who had helped alongside them.

Alice entered the room aloof and slightly indigant, and yet seemed confused by the emptiness. She hadn't expected Amelia to be alone. Had she ever been alone?

"Where's Françoise?" she asked, eyes on the youth on the table, who looked over with those big blue eyes and the proud smile of a winner. "And the rest."

"It's much easier to cut her off and negotiate directly with you. You can make your own treaties with them."

Politically, Alice was thrilled to hear it. Françoise had been nudging herself close to Amelia, doting on her and stroking her ego, and had done it looking Alice in the eyes. But now came her own chance; though she my have lost Amelia, she could now begin a partnership with her. After all, a young nation would need guidance. Alice would rather that came from her.

And yet, all nations retained their sense of personality. Inwardly, behind politics and economics and government, Alice felt disdain. Her eyes were cool as she evaluated Amelia's smile, her glowing grin of victory, and those words. She supposed Amelia didn't know the severity of her actions. Perhaps Alice had made a comment too rash and soured her opinion of the woman. Maybe Amelia was simply blind and couldn't recognise how much of herself Françoise had bled into Amelia's war.

Either way, it wasn't Alice's place, as a human, to comment.

"Very well," she said. "Now sit down properly and tell me it is what you want."

Amelia turned on the table, high above Alice, and smiled to her. Very simply and very clearly, she began to lay out her conditions. All Alice could do was sit and listen, making suggestions and amendments here and there with the goal of a new alliance.

* * *

"This is a treaty, Françoise, not a leisurely visit," Alice said, sat in one of the many luxurious rooms of Versailles. Plenty of life bustled inside the palace, but in their shut room, things were quiet and more subdued.

"Of course, Alice. Your visits always are." Françoise glanced up to her and smiled, passing over the cup of tea she had poured for her. She had been frustrated when she had spilt tea on the white cloth of the table, because her hands had begun trembling again. She was so terribly tired. The novelty of American values had worn off substantially for her as she adjusted to this exhaustion. She admired Amelia in memory, as she had not come to see her.

They began to discuss what was owed, and it was agreed that Tobago and Senegal would be returned to Françoise. It was a measly sum for such a hard fought victory, and although Françoise hid it, she felt suddenly nauseous. She could no longer distract herself with the Americans.

"You have met with Amelia?" she assumed, looking to Alice with apparently light hearted curiosity.

"Of course." Alice took a sip of her drink, eyes down as she did, before she placed her cup down and addressed Françoise. "We hope to become close trading partners."

"I have heard it said that you offered her quite the generous agreement."

"Perhaps I did."

There was some silence. They both drank their tea and avoided looking at one another; Alice simply observed some of the art on the wall, thinking of the oddities of the continent, while Françoise noted the pattern of the china tea cups. The prettiness of the golden rims, the pink flowers, and their soft green leaves.

"Why is it that you always buy what you need, Alice?" Françoise asked quite suddenly, looking up to her. Alice's eyes met hers; her face was passive and expectant. She had expected anger. "You have the money to buy her alliance, but I fought with her, and fought for her. Did I not?"

"You fought for her to do nothing more than aggravate me. Don't blame the girl for your mess," Alice said curtly, although the indignant passion in Françoise's eyes was hard to face. "You didn't have to spend so much on her war. You never had to get involved. Don't pretend that you were ever more virtuous than me."

Françoise looked at the stain on the cloth with furrowed brows, and then shook her head decisively.

"I wanted to fight with her. I agree with her values. I do, Alice, I-"

"And you love your monarchy. And you love your church. And you love your palaces, and your grandeur, and the handy way that you can mend a break with a royal marriage."

"And so did you, if I recall!" Françoise felt the thickness of her throat, and the tautness of her pursed lips. "At least I am not so stupid to execute one monarch and then reinstate his son! A son born of a French woman!"

It had been helpful to use marriages for reconciliations. And it had been useful to have that excuse; we're allies because they're married.

Leaning back in her chair, Alice closed her eyes and sighed. "You have time to make those mistakes, Françoise. You're sick again. Did you think I hadn't noticed?"

She hated the uneasy rules that dictated their lives. They were innately political and innately their own person. All of their relationships were innately diplomatic, and yet they found human fondness and dislikes. Governed by their people, they were always controlled by foreign, external ideas. It was sometimes hard to tell what was real, humanly real, and what wasn't. Furthermore, it was hard to take a political stance, to do their job, without silently having their own thoughts on the matter.

Françoise trembled to hear it said aloud. She had won a war, technically, and yet here she was. She watched as Alice stood and took a tight breath, assuming that she had decided to leave, but softened as she came nearer. Alice pressed her hand to her forehead and seemed to take a pause to analyse her findings. She took Françoise's hand and observed the shake of her manicured fingers.

"Do you remember the Civil War?" Alice asked, moving the tea cups and saucers and putting them aside so that she could take a seat on the table.

"Of course." Françoise looked up to her, hand still in hers. "You were as sick as a dog. The worst I have ever seen you."

"You thought I might die."

"You say that I always think that."

And Françoise smiled tearfully. Yes, she did always think that. But how could they ever know? They couldn't predict the future. Alice's civil war has been so bloody and so brutal that she had been in constant pain. Françoise had tried to rally support for the Royalists, thinking that Alice's monarchy was where power should naturally be, but the King had lost, and it had taken rather a long while for Alice to feel truly healthy again.

"Change happens, Françoise," Alice told her, not saying a thing as Françoise pressed soft kisses to her fingers. "The only thing you can do is meet it."

"You say that with such confidence, but you met change and decided to step back," Françoise said, sighing as she looked up to Alice. Her eyes were still wet, but she managed a mild smile.

"Sometimes change means stepping back. Most times it means taking steps forward." Alice reached to brush back Françoise's hair. She thought that making an economic alliance with Amelia was a good example of stepping forward, but she didn't want to upset Françoise any further. "Taking steps forward usually incurs plenty of hardship. I hope that you're careful. And I hope that your feelings don't get in the way of what's best."

"Oh?" Françoise said, standing from her chair so that she could begin putting away the cutlery. Stood up, it could be seen that she had lost some weight. Always following the trends of the time, apparently doing so naturally, she had looked buxom, healthy, and wholesome before. Alice momentarily took in the lacking roundness of her cheeks and the slimness of her arm, but did so quickly and discreetly. "Am I meant to believe that your feelings have never caused you to do the very same?"


End file.
